


Sleep as You Normally Would

by Roxis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amusement Parks, Angst, Confessions, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Dreamsharing, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magic, Minor Character Death, Oneshot, Scarletstrange - Freeform, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roxis/pseuds/Roxis
Summary: They're fairly introduced in a manifested world of children's fantasy where all the (false) magic happens — an amusement park. Stephen dreamt of things before — as far as his recollection goes on the things that happen before the wake diminishes the lasting memories of his sleep, for the most part, it's all but bubbly and fun. Sometimes, symbolic in view. Sometimes, creepy imagery; nightmares, and the likes that bring a chill. Least likely, anything desirable that brought up certain parts of his anatomy — last that happened was when he became a hormonal teenager.This… was rathernew.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff & Stephen Strange, Wanda Maximoff/Stephen Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	Sleep as You Normally Would

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit/gifts).



> I saw that my friend gifted me a fic and now I am morally obligated to give one in return. Hope you enjoy it ;)
> 
> This pairing deserves more tbh.

Never would the likes of Stephen Strange find himself submitting to slumber when his obligations are involved in the utmost importance. Some of them, challenging enough for the destruction of order.

Then he met her.

~~~~~~~~~~

They're fairly introduced in a manifested world of children's fantasy where all the (false) magic happens — an amusement park. Stephen dreamt of things before — as far as his recollection goes on the things that happen before the wake diminishes the lasting memories of his sleep, for the most part, it's all but bubbly and fun. Sometimes, symbolic in view. Sometimes, creepy imagery; nightmares, and the likes that bring a chill. Least likely, anything desirable that brought up certain parts of his anatomy — last that happened was when he became a hormonal teenager.

This… was rather _new._

It's not worn down, by any means. The amusement park is well managed. New, even. Missing only the batches and broad range of customers the park was intended for to service and entertain; It's desolate, deprived of the tiniest hint of other living beings apart from the Sorcerer Supreme.

Except there sits a figure on a bench far across from his view. A brunette dressed in an attire of monochromatic red, her natural, green eyes focus on the bag of popcorns she holds to snack upon. Only till her eyes motioned around that she took in the cloaked man before her teeth sunk in another of the buttered corn — her lips still ajar, unbelieving of the sight she's witnessing.

He makes it to her when she continues to remain rather like a statue.

"Who are you?" He asks first of the two. They're under the shade of trees growing behind the row of benches. He pays better attention to the details — they look alive, strikingly. But not only was it that alone. The breeze of wind too, the heat of the sunlight that hits the part not covered by the leaves, the smell of fresh air. It's rather weird, almost scarily real. "Where are we? What is this place?"

Her posture stays the same, unmoving from the shock. "You… You're not supposed to be here."

Then, he wakes up. Sweating, and a headache to boot.

He visits Kamar-Taj, for the books in the library. Those that contain records of his experience or anything alike to that.

"So you think the woman eating the popcorn is behind this?" Wong questions, piling another stack in front of the doctor.

Stephen skims them through, "She knew that I wasn't supposed to be there. She was shocked, a good enough reason she's aware of what it was."

Wong picks another pile, those of sleeping cantrips to hexes of long-period slumber to insomniac cursing. Some dream recreations, which the man finds are filled with ideas meant and suitable for younger targets or casters. Children, basically. "And you're _sure_ this is magic-related?"

Strange pauses, eyes his friend suspiciously. "What are you saying?"

The man in question shrugs. "All I'm saying is when was it that you last slept?"

No answer comes from the Sorcerer Supreme, concluding a simplified answer. In all fairness, reoccurring magical issues threatening the very existence of mankind tends the sacrificial offer of snoozing away duties. And hygiene maintenance, much to their dismay.

"So, she's just what? A figment of my sleep deprivation?" Stephen mutters.

"Maybe, dreams are weird, can't expect what the mind wants out of us. Even magic has limits and territories we can't comprehend." He shuts the book in Stephen's front, of dream reality manipulation. "So, I suggest, go to your room, rest the day and get yourself back to tip-top shape."

The pungent odor reaches Wong, shuddering in the foul stench. "And do yourself a favour and go take a shower."

~~~~~~~~~~

He dreams of the park again and thinks of it as Wong said. Then, thinks it again because he's absolutely sure it's no mere coincidence of the choice in location and of the unknown, young woman — her outfit of a different style compared to the wholly red of yesterday. A black tank top with denim under an oversized jacket, framing her body as smaller than intended.

She's there again on the bench, just like before. With the same status of shock, fries in hand this time.

"Who are you?" She asked this time, grumbling. "No one else is supposed to be here."

"What is this place?" He provides his own. "What are you?"

"I asked first." She crosses one hand over, her other is picking the snacks. The accent is thick — he assumes she's not from around.

Strange complies, only to meet an end. "I'm Doctor Stephen Strange."

It's only silent after, from her blank staring towards the older man and even her movements pause after the answer. Then, she laughs and giggles, and he's left confused under the impression out of her. "Ah, I see. You're my _creation_."

He's further confused by the statement. "What do you mean by that?"

"It makes sense now," under the admittance that she has solved a very misplaced puzzle, meant for the older audience lest they hear the cries of children from how difficult it is. "No one can come here except for me. And whatever is here are things I've made and designed, so then, I must've made you. Probably, unconsciously then, my powers are wacky sometimes. Besides, what kind of name is Doctor Strange, feels like it's made for a kid's series."

He scoffs, offended, insulted. Over a name, that was known well in years prior to becoming Sorcerer Supreme. "If you're done being insufferable, mind explaining what it is I'm doing here and what is here exactly?"

"Huh, would have thought you knew?" The offender nibbles a fry, dipped in ketchup. "It's my _'happy'_ place, accessible from only my dreams and creations."

She stands and snaps, the bench explodes and shapes outwardly in forms resembling other objects and materials — where the metallic frames alter to chains connecting to rods emerging from the ground and the wooden structure shifts into leather seats of two under the click of her fingers. She created a swing, almost without effort, as it seems. "As for why you're here, can't find myself an answer. People call me weird, it's fitting that my powers are that too."

She sits on the swing, tells him to follow with the other pair. Stephen does, the sensation is as he concluded, as real as it comes — the seat is warm and the chains his hands hold onto is the cold, stainless feel of metal. He opens, "Powers?"

"Experimented," she answers, displaying an eerie, red glow from her motioning fingers. "It was pushing and pulling objects at first, then I found I could read minds. Then, well, this. Doesn't always obey me."

He was offered fries by her, he rejects them — doesn't know what it is in them and it's enough to refuse the digestion of anything edible in this plain. Strange comprehends, tries to at least, what it is revealed. And he wonders slightly if this is relating to occult or wizardry or the profession he claims supreme of. He's read a myriad of spellbooks, memorized many tricks, his conclusion is this is not in correlation with what he deals with on the usual basis. So, why is he here?

"You created all of this?" Stephen asks, admittedly, because it was impressive. Then again, she excels at whatever this is.

"From memory, more or less. Some were using my own creative liberties."

"Why an amusement park?"

The woman faces him curiously, eyebrow raised. "From something I created, you awfully ask too many questions."

He sighs and tips the swing slightly. "I can assure you, I'm not something you create."

"Righttt," she drags, and it's everything that says she doesn't believe him. "I mean, it's still nice, whether or not. This place is lonely if you can't tell."

She's not wrong about that in particular. It's a bit sadder than thinking his name is, well, strange.

~~~~~~~~~~

She goes by Wanda, he finds about it the day after. They had formal introductions, she calls him by Stephen — as opposed to Doctor Weird.

"You think you can hit the bell?"

Wanda points at the hammer game; the test your strength challenge, like those in parks where it's a degrading icon to some and creates a statement that only specifically built individuals are the only ones capable of ever conquering the simple challenge of the game, stroking further their ego.

Stephen nods.

The hammer poofs in his hands and Strange is still getting used to that occurring. Without magic, of course, not that he knows of just yet. But it's the redefined way where she utters a single word, lifts the smallest muscles, or even, nothing at all, that it happens so naturally. Where his magic is the fountain of his abilities, Wanda's is a bit odd with detailing the origins. He pushes in the history, to which he is ignored or the conversation drives away entirely. Sometimes, it's the same experiment tale.

He lifts the hammer to push and strike the lever with ease, and the puck soars quickly as it reaches to every level of the strength bar… to fall short of the bell at the highest peak.

"As always, this game is rigged." He grumbles, adorable according to Wanda.

"Or you're not as manly as you think you are," Wanda suggested, another offense to the piling list. "Let me give a try."

Stephen lends her the hammer voluntarily, after her accusation and he becomes eager to watch her produce a lesser result. Wanda struggles, still bringing the hammer above and bashing the lever with the lesser force Strange expected. Except, the puck skyrockets and impacts with the bell, producing the loud ringing of success.

He groans, because she just cheated. And he's a fool for falling into her devious scheme.

"Look at what I got!" She presents to him the reward — a small, stuffed lion, outfitted to resemble a doctor with the tiny stethoscope and white coat.

He endures this, has to because its dreams he can't escape from, literally. "For the sake of keeping our dreams called the _'happy'_ place, I'll ignore the fact that you cheated the game. Or that you could have already mass-produced this without needing to humiliate me."

Wanda brushed the claim, no proof towards the allegations. "Someone seems sulky."

"Aren't you too old to be playing with dolls?"

Her expression is troubled and she looks to have been mocked with. "Are you kidding me? I'm a good 24, mind you."

"I hear it's because dolls are a good substitute for friends." Stephen hypothesizes, smirking to add flavour to the comment.

She huffs, and speaks immediately, "I have a brother." He misses the regret that comes after her words. She follows quickly, "His name is Pietro."

"So, you're not the weird kid in class?" He questions.

"Oh, I definitely am," Wanda claims the title. "But so are you, right?"

Stephen wakes up, a smile edged in his face.

~~~~~~~~~~

It's raining.

The trekking of water droplets from his head down his stubble is undeniably hard to differ with what the real reality provides. But New York hasn't rained for some time, and this feels more like his reality every waking day he enters the land and seeks the very creator of their unified dreams. His clothes and hair are soaking and briefly wonders if what occurs in-between the time he meets Wanda in this plane of existence is brought back upon awakening from each of their sleep. He thinks they both can catch a cold, and he avoids that if can. 

He finds her charming, Stephen admits, anticipating the moon to rise faster in his excuse to find her that feels rather immoral but isn't. Night is their only medium of engagement and Stephen contemplates giving her his address. Proceeded by thinking if that's ever a good idea to begin with. But he likes her, as frustrating as she might from her comments regarding him. He thinks she knows more of him than most of the people in his life, yet that list wasn't that high to start.

He can't say he knows Wanda much, because she's rather secretive that way. Or when he nudges at her to hint any background is only met with the ignorance and faint conversation that drives away from the initial topic of their discussion. So Stephen has no clue as to why she's crying.

It's a dress she's wearing that meant it was for an occasion — only with a sorrow end, evident from her tears masking with the drops. The claret gown is floor-length with a v neck over the straps, small beads decorating the waist that meant a dress like this was intended for someone. Special, even. In another time, if he recalls, he'll say the dress complimented her perfectly.

He doesn't say that now.

"Sorry," it's her apology when he walks to her, sitting beside on the swings. "It's raining and it's not supposed to be like this. You're soaking."

"I pay no mind." He assures. "I'm more concerned about your well-being than my trip to the laundry."

She giggles. He smiles.

Wanda stares off, and it's a face like those of expectant sadness, something predicted or braced for before the arrival. She shakes her head, laughing pitifully. "Boyfriend issues, it's dumb. He's dumb. Boys are dumb, no offense."

"You've hurt my pride before, it's not that big."

She snorts, "That's because you're likable. You can't be perfect."

"And your boyfriend isn't?" He fires.

Wanda almost groans at the mention of it. "He's had issues. But I try, because that's what good girlfriends do. That last straw was seeing him with another woman during a work party."

He almost doesn't, but his hand reaches hers and he gives her his sympathy for her loss, despite the other side being its entire reason for the failed relationship. She's over it, Wanda claims. He's bitter for her and says he'll punch her now-ex. She surprises them with her burst of laughter.

Pity, because she's rather beautiful. So Stephen lacks the understanding of why she receives the short end of the stick — how her partner sees her differently in his eyes compared to Strange, he may never know. But she's here now; With a dress like that, in their dream from which she went to sleep with the inefficiency to change clothing. And he's here with her, wondering how he should approach her with the subject.

"Do you want to dance?" He speaks of it.

She glances at him, almost like she'd misheard the offer in question. "What, so now that I'm single you're stepping in line?"

"None of that, but you are rather dressed well and it'd be a shame to let that effort go to waste, won't it." His hands request for hers. "It'll take your mind off of him."

She snickers at him, but grips his hand in the acceptance of his dance request. Her fingers snap and the terrain shifts into marble tiles, snowy drapes hung over above the poles that stretch to cover the area from the drizzling rain — the place transforms into something like that of a prom for every teenager's dreams with the many flora decors and overflowing balloons strapped in every corner. There's dancing music playing, he doesn't know where from, doesn't care.

They take it slow, just from his lack of knowledge in bodily movements and that he's cautious of stepping on her. She doesn't know that much ahead from him, but he manages to twirl her as his hand extends her before she spins back and lands on his grab, not missing the chance to stay closer to the taller man. They do the same for a while, she's happy, then the muse changes to tango.

"You can't expect me to learn this," Stephen complains. "And for the record, I'm not perfect."

"I'm not, just dance," She moves erratically, and he sees it as no different from a goose attempting to dance. "Also, I created you, of course you're perfect."

He separates to move along the beats and rhythm, laughter bubbling in his chest. "I can assure you, I'm not."

She feigns ignorance, like the many times previously. It doesn't bother, not to him at that moment. And he thinks this one, in particular, is becoming a very fond memory and impression of her, only at how it's the most fun this has been and how well she moves with him in his arms. How well their bodies move accordingly under the order of music, and Stephen thinks he wants more of their time like this.

Then there's buzzing, and he wakes up, his clothing drenched from the presumable rainwater. His alarm rings wildly and he groans at the inconvenience of the time as he picks up his wet sheet and readies to visit the laundry.

Stephen stores his alarm clock away after. Never to be seen.

~~~~~~~~~~

It's been a month that this has become his schedule.

It's claiming to be distracting. Contrary to the very events residing in his head, the physical form remains well-rested through everything happening. Stephen doesn't say it's distracting. Wong does.

"You're daydreaming, again." Wong is irritated. It's the 6th time this week.

Stephen hides a yawn, "My bad. There have been many things going on."

Though the appointment starts later, if given the right time, he'll find her in the afternoon to early evening from quick, power naps. They made the basis of the schedule to work on, more often than not it's exactly as written down in the back of their heads. Sometimes, they hit right away, others just kill time and the progress of productivity goes slower. He should worry, or start to, at least. Then he sees her, and his thoughts are erased.

He hasn't told Wong of Wanda, and vice versa. And sometimes, he thinks he should have or maybe had begun telling him when the second time rolled around. Because now is rather too late, or it would be more complex than it already is. But he should search if what Wanda does is magic, and then maybe he can help her. Or begin to have a reason to.

"When I recommend you sleep, I didn't mean for you to take it to heart," Wong scolds, it's valid because this isn't the first. "What's going on Strange, you've been very out of yourself? Missing appointments, absences. You don't even read all that much as you did before. It's… unlike you."

"It's nothing, I've just been distracted." He makes an excuse. 

"I can only hope it's nothing." Wong states.

~~~~~~~~~~

They both should stop and try to be normal for once.

He sees the appeal of the place and why she stands to adore it here more than anything apart from it.

Still, it's almost… _unhealthy._

"Want some?"

She shoves the cotton candy mindlessly to his face that despite the insistence of not consuming anything produced out of her reality, the edge of his mouth catches a piece of the sugary sweetness. It's… too sweet for his liking. But he can barely differ it, and to what extent does her form of power transcends the limitations of reality and fiction. He's almost scared — his senses are of no use to helping distinguish when he wakes up or not, falling into the illusion that his reality is a dream.

"Too sweet," he pushes the cone away, saving his face and the cotton stuck to his stubble. "Too much sugar is bad."

"Okay, old man, I'll watch out for my diet." more for her, then. He mishears the insult intentionally. "You want to go for a ride?"

He glances wearily, "What kind?"

She chuckles at his cautiousness over her mischief. "Something your old-man heart can take."

Red fabrics strap above his hips, tightly, pulling him down to be seated on a bench that morphs itself to becoming a carousel horse. A metal rod emerges, connecting to the moving roundabout that materialized from Wanda's command, along with many other empty seats of the ride.

Wanda sits comfortably on a life-size teacup, rotating as the conveyer progresses. "How'd you like it?"

"Not much of a horseman, I can tell you that." Especially one with star glitters stamped for the little girls.

"Tragic, they're beautiful," she clicks her fingers together, to which his horse merges slowly with her teacup — the materials converging to fit with the other. Stephen is placed carefully beside her.

"You seem to have great control over your abilities."

"Practice, I guess, I like spending my time here."

"And how long did you spend in here?" Stephen asks.

She doesn't answer — shakes her head and plays with her fingers, red oozing off of them. "Do you ever want anything?"

Who doesn't, but he's had it all, asking for more is almost selfish on his part. "I'm content with what I have." He turns to her, "I would assume you have something then."

"Yeah, but I don't think I'll be getting it."

He doesn't ask why — they're already in this dimension of fabrication, where it obliges under any of her wishes to appear and vanish at her will. Stephen thinks it's a someone she's after. What else is missing here after everything he's witnessed?

He wonders who.

His hands come closer to her face, Wanda flinches out of the suddenness. "S-stephen?"

"You have cotton candy on the edge of your lips," Stephen informs. "Let me."

And Wanda doesn't move, frozen. Still, her face shifts closer to allow the permission. He brushes the pink floss of candy, his thumb the closest to her mouth. After so, he freezes, her hands enfold his, it's soft and tender. She brings his hands to her cheek, and he lets her use it as a pillow for her head to rest.

They're not normal.

He wakes up, the warmth from his hand lingers a bit longer.

~~~~~~~~~~

He plays chess with her, among many other tabletops — It's one of the few she knows and one of the few she's claiming to be good at.

Not the typical, it's with gigantic pieces in her world. And he wonders what is up with her excessiveness.

"So, you're a wizard?" She believes him, regardless of the almost-sounding doubt. "Move rook from C-1 to C-2. Check."

They sit on top of twin towers overviewing the entirety of the humongous black and white board — its pieces the size of one tall landmark, the board more than one baseball field.

"Move rook from F-7 to F-2." Stephen orders, moving willingly without hesitation to guard the precious king. "Sorcerer Supreme. But yes, I do magic. Just not here, for some reason."

"You mean like those on birthday parties?" Wanda rests on her hand, planning. "Move rook from C-2 to C-5."

He grimaces under the misconception, and under the assumption that he would ever do such trivial tricks on children. "No, not like them. Move rook from F-2 to D-2."

"Really? Cause as far as I'm concerned, there's no difference." Wanda teases him, to get him off track, if anything. But he's undeterred — reacting less to her remarks. She thinks of a different strategy. "Move horse from A-5 to C-4."

"They're called knights, by the way," Stephen tells her, Wanda rolls her eyes. "But no, what we do is form energy and its different types through varied realities and universes. You can achieve a lot by doing so." He stands, analyzing the best set of actions against her assault. "Move bishop from G-1 to C-5, eating your rook."

"Why are you telling me this?" She goes on the defense. "Move knight from C-4 to D-2, eating your rook."

"Because my guess is that you are using magic," Stephen confesses, she looks at him with widened eyes. "Move bishop from C-5 to E-3. Checkmate."

Wanda turns to witness the board — and sees that her king is cornered with his pieces lining for the kill in the case he moves another step. She murmurs to him, "I thought you were a doctor?"

"I am," and he shakes his head, "Was. But now, I learn to control what is beyond that of mere human understanding. New knowledge."

But Wanda doesn't listen completely; racking the chess pieces away in a glossary of figurines and games. He wonders about her tendency to converse on matters above the realm of their dreams. It's clear she has some disinterest in his life — may be specifically on anything about him outside their dreams. And he connects that it's the same with her and her own.

"$÷®∆π¶€"

It's an abrupt static, buzzing in his ears without the simplest idea where it originated. 

"$T®∆πG€!"

Again, louder.

Wanda notices, and goes pale instantly. "Stephen, come with me."

"$T®AπG€!"

Another.

"Stephen, listen to me."

"$TRAπG€!"

Clearer.

"Stephen, follow me."

"STRANGE!"

The splash hits him, he wakes up, face spilled with the hint of tea. It's warm, too.

There stands Wong, besides his bed with the evidence in hand — the heated teapot. He's rather shocked, perplexed, and Stephen doesn't like that he's in here with anything but chastising him. Because that means something is terribly out of order, or the ordinary. It's of that exactly when his windows show it's nighttime precisely, but not supposedly his expected today or the morning intended.

Stephen hesitates, almost, in asking him. "How long was I out?"

And Wong has the same air of hesitation, "27 hours. The entire day."

~~~~~~~~~~

"You really are real, aren't you," Wanda asks, finally.

Stephen can only nod. "But you knew that."

"In a way," she sits down, heavy when coming to realize and accept what it is that's been told from beginning to now. "I thought of it, believed it. I guess I was hoping… wishing you were my creation."

He sits again beside her, on their bench, because they came to form something special in the several days of noticing one and the other from their slumber. Stephen thinks it may have gone different, had he met her elsewhere but here — that they can share the privacy of their lives and the entanglements without much of the dilemma now. Without asking so hard of her.

"Did you try to keep me in my sleep?" He asks, finally.

She's almost infuriated at what he meant, or what he tries to convey in. And Wanda thinks he never understood her, no one has, no one will. But she faces that it's an oversight on her part — of keeping her life away from his knowledge, through the sheer ignorance she repeatedly sends his way. And Wanda thinks it may have gone differently.

"Is that a bad thing!?" Wanda sneers. "Look around, Stephen! whatever you want, what you could wish you want. Say it and I can make it happen!"

And their scene switches — of which he wears a crown in a chair of gold, over-abundance of jewelry embroidered in every segment of his clothing. Accessories that aren't the closest thing to possible when counting the amount of it, and out of all, Wanda that sits beside his throne.

He's told her that he doesn't want anything before — he thinks it changed from then.

"But they're not real, are they?" He dares her to reject. "They're still... _fake._ "

The scene fades to red, the singular colour only.

"What I have here," she starts, and he almost misses the downcast of her words. "It's better than what the world could provide me."

"And why is that?"

She's breaking, shattering, and so is the background — cracks are forming, the noises of smashed glasses echoing the colour-deprived room and it's all aligned with the decay of her dream. "It's Pietro,"

And somehow, it makes sense.

She calls it her _'happy'_ place for a reason.

"It's funny… how the world works. He was squashed under some rubbles, even with his demise, he smiled. And I lived, me! He didn't deserve what happened to him. I didn't deserve having to walk here alone. And even here, I can't summon him… he… he's truly gone."

He sets his hand on her shoulder, firm. "When was this?"

Tears sting her eyes. "Two months ago."

_When it all began._

"Wanda, I'm sorry." He says, voice filled with sympathy for the woman he'd grew fond off. "You need to grieve, but not this way. Not by pushing down all your problems underneath a fantasy to cover it up. Because you still have a life, you still have people."

"I have no one." She says harshly.

"You have me." He admits. Stephen makes sure she sees him, his fingers holds her chin up to face him.

And he kisses her, and it's almost sinful. Dreadful, because it becomes harder and complicated and overall the conviction to restrain himself to stick with the words he'll say after becomes almost much more unbearable. But she kisses him back, and he's convinced it's the closest thing to real by this point.

He slips her a card, small and into her hands.

"Stephen, what's this?" She holds it, _177A Bleecker Street._

"My address, you're always welcome to visit." He still holds her, being scared of letting go. For the first in two months.

"What do you mean?" Panic rises, and he sees it's the most she feared.

"I'll allow this one last time. For you to take a moment and grieve the way you want. But for your sake," Stephen pauses, contemplates, and continues, "and for my sake, move on from where this place is. Heal."

"Stephen, I'm fine." She lies, smiling her way. "Just stay. Stay with me." _forever._

"I'll be with you," he mumbles, a chaste kiss to her forehead. "Supporting you, but I can only help so far, from here it's your choice to move forward from this place."

He steps back, she reaches for him, resembling that of trying to come up from the depth of the ocean.

"You'll be back," she says, her voice hoarse. "I can make you come back."

"You can't. Your powers, they touch the realm of magic, a few wards I set can prevent me from entering your dreams again."

She falls to her knees and Wanda doesn't stop the tears from pouring like a dam that broke from within.

"Stephen… please, don't… don't do this to me," Wanda begs, and it's the next few lines that ache him. "I _love_ you, I love you, I love you. So please don't.

He falls victim to his own sadness. "I love you. I wish to see you soon.'

He wakes up, his tears sliding down.

~~~~~~~~~~

True to his words, he doesn't see her. And it's out of his habit due to the lack of something integral in the two months. He waits for her from inside, and it's a new habit to sit patiently for the doors to open and for Wanda to take her steps.

It's been a while, Stephen can understand the time taken to undergo or leave a part of her life behind. Truthfully, it hurts.

"No sign?"

Wong comes in, seeing him. Strange told him of the incident, and amongst the disappointing glances he gives, there's the smallest of consolation and understanding that comes from him. 

"Not today," he sighs, accepting as it is. "Another day, then."

~~~~~~~~~~

She enters the sanctum one day, and his breathing hitch.

He walks down the stairs, to welcome her along with the other things he'd like to catch up on. She finds him after looking around — smiling instantaneously.

She looks the same, though it's the first few steps here that he almost regards as achievements of their own. And he can't say anything apart from how proud he is.

"I was expecting this place to be more… magical."

"It's no amusement park, that's for sure."

Wanda hugs him — it makes up for how late she is in visiting him. "I missed you."

He places a kiss on her head.

"Welcome home."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome and highly appreciated :)


End file.
